Grasping so tightly, the crushing grip preventing breath, churning red seeps into the flowery vision and black instilled in heart's depths. Ephemeral as the touch may be, the tenuous hold sinks deeper, twisting down into a soul burnt and aching.
Always. Always was never enough, for truth's aging mother abandons hope in an alleyway, littered with dust and refuse and the carcasses of what once was locked away in the shadows of the tortured mind. The circus may be delightful but the ruin left behind scatters the last bits of sanity like the crushed shells of nuts with dirtied rags. Each dessert tastes sweet and yet the aftertaste becomes more bitter; dissatisfaction eats away as the cup stands empty and rusts. Hope is the deepest curse, cutting more acutely than any other blade; moths eat away at the tapestry of life, leaving holes and wretchedness.
Hold to your sinking ship, siren who cannot breathe air, for all that is left are the waves crashing upon your lost heart. Your caved stash of violent secrets will only last for moments before you find the only pain left from your rampage is your own. Snakes twist through your hair, feeding off of your confused thoughts.
Grasping the poison in your paws, the antidote you dropped behind. The color deceives you without the label attached, but the drunken feelings will heighten your senses when you fall; your heartbeat fills your ears as the pain of the thorny weeds penetrate your flesh. Across the chasm you built is the soul you seek to embrace, curling yourself within as a salve of communion heals your wounds. Only you are blind and cannot find the warmth past the fog filling your failing senses.
The gentle breeze carries over the steel box, settling softly to create a lullaby; the glimmer of silk touches your shoulders, but you shrug it off despite your nakedness.
Hold. You cannot breathe now.
The rushing waters will revive you; don't fall to the stones. Taking time might be worth it...
But hope cannot be trusted.
Always. Always was never enough, for truth's aging mother abandons hope in an alleyway, littered with dust and refuse and the carcasses of what once was locked away in the shadows of the tortured mind. The circus may be delightful but the ruin left behind scatters the last bits of sanity like the crushed shells of nuts with dirtied rags. Each dessert tastes sweet and yet the aftertaste becomes more bitter; dissatisfaction eats away as the cup stands empty and rusts. Hope is the deepest curse, cutting more acutely than any other blade; moths eat away at the tapestry of life, leaving holes and wretchedness.
Hold to your sinking ship, siren who cannot breathe air, for all that is left are the waves crashing upon your lost heart. Your caved stash of violent secrets will only last for moments before you find the only pain left from your rampage is your own. Snakes twist through your hair, feeding off of your confused thoughts.
Grasping the poison in your paws, the antidote you dropped behind. The color deceives you without the label attached, but the drunken feelings will heighten your senses when you fall; your heartbeat fills your ears as the pain of the thorny weeds penetrate your flesh. Across the chasm you built is the soul you seek to embrace, curling yourself within as a salve of communion heals your wounds. Only you are blind and cannot find the warmth past the fog filling your failing senses.
The gentle breeze carries over the steel box, settling softly to create a lullaby; the glimmer of silk touches your shoulders, but you shrug it off despite your nakedness.
Hold. You cannot breathe now.
The rushing waters will revive you; don't fall to the stones. Taking time might be worth it...
But hope cannot be trusted.
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